Fort Eustis mourns lost soldier

When the 89th Transportation Company received orders to deliver medical supplies and other equipment to a Marine Corps unit near Najaf, Iraq, Army Spc. Raymond J. Faulstich Jr. volunteered to drive.

"He knew the risks and he still volunteered," 1st Lt. William Steinour, the company's executive officer, said Wednesday to more than 400 people piled into the standing-room-only Fort Eustis Regimental Chapel.

Faulstich died Aug. 5 when his convoy was ambushed. He was the first member of the Eustis-based 7th Transportation Group to die in the war. More than 3,500 soldiers from Eustis have spent time in the war zone. Faulstich was posthumously promoted to specialist and given the Purple Heart and Bronze Star.

Other than roughly 25 family members -- including his wife, Crystal, father, Raymond, and mother, Linda, who all drove down from Faulstich's hometown in Maryland -- the audience was a sea of green uniforms. Wednesday was the first time Faulstich's immediate family had returned to Eustis since his deployment June 15.

Many soldiers sobbed as speaker after speaker remembered the 24-year-old they all affectionately called their "brother in arms," "their battle buddy," "their friend."

As the convoy neared Najaf, Steinour continued, "they came under heavy fire on both sides."

Supporters of rebel cleric Muqtada al-Sadr had attacked a police station about 1 a.m. that day. U.S. troops joined the fight and insurgents attacked the nearby convoy.

The convoy hit roadside bombs and was attacked by mortars and rocket-propelled grenades, said the battalion commander, Lt. Col. Timothy Collins.

"During the course of that, Specialist Faulstich was hit by a bullet," Steinour said.

Despite the wound in his abdomen, Faulstich, who was in the lead vehicle, continued to drive.

"He drove another mile," Steinour said. "It wasn't until the convoy was out of the kill zone that he became unconscious."

Faulstich saved the life of his passenger, the convoy commander, Steinour said. He also saved the lives of the other soldiers in the convoy, who followed him as he pushed through.

"To summarize who he was," Steinour said, "you have to know how he lived."

He was a volunteer, Steinour said. He was brave. He was a soldier.

"He was modest, yet funny," said Capt. Christina Helferich, Faulstich's former company commander. "He was quiet, yet full of 'yes ma'ams' and 'I'll make it happen.' He was often afraid he would let someone down. I'm here to say, Specialist Faulstich, you haven't let anyone down."

At the end of the ceremony, in keeping with Army tradition, a soldier stood at the front of the chapel, near an M-16 propped up on a pair of Army desert boots and a Kevlar helmet, and called roll.

He called two names and both soldiers responded -- "Here, first sergeant."

Then he called out for Faulstich. "Specialist Faulstich," he said.

Silence.

"Specialist Faulstich," he said again.

Silence.

"Specialist Raymond J. Faulstich Jr.," he said one last time.

Silence.

"Dropped from the roll."

A 21-gun salute sounded. A lone soldier played "Taps" outside the church and hundreds of soldiers stood at attention, letting tears fall freely.